


Ignorance is Bliss

by bunnoculars



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 00:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13558548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnoculars/pseuds/bunnoculars
Summary: In which Geoff Emerick is persuaded to become a John/Paul shipper and his assistant is a git. Inspired by his book,Here, There, and Everywhere.





	Ignorance is Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> This fic owes everything to _Here, There, and Everywhere_ by Geoff Emerick. Definitely recommend it to any Beatles fan that hasn't read it yet! I'd probably place it ahead of _Revolution in the Head_ , but that's just me.

It really didn’t occur to Geoff Emerick until that afternoon.

They were making the final mono mixes for the final songs on the album that day. The Beatles had stayed for a bit to see how things were going before they’d left in high spirits, off to wherever the hell they all went to when they weren’t on tour or in the studio—Ringo had been off first, George next, and though John probably would’ve liked to have gone then too, he’d waited until at long last he could drag Paul away with him. Their departure greatly relieved Emerick (though he wouldn’t have minded Paul sticking around for a bit longer)—finally, after an endless two months of stretching to the limits of his creativity, and rather beyond those of his ingenuity (and breaking every rule in EMI’s books along the way)— _finally_ , he could relax.

He could maybe get a love life now (hell, it’d be nice to just have a life), go out with his friends, do all the things a man his age should be doing…and for now he could prop his feet up and loosen his tie and light a cigarette—

And of course, that was when Richard had to bring it up.

“Why do you suppose those blokes go ’round together all the time?” he asked, and there was nothing too dodgy about such a question at first—it wasn’t until later that it got into what it got into.

“Well, they’re in a band, aren’t they? And they’re best mates, besides—been together since they were growing up,” Geoff told him, feeling rather superior that he understood the Beatles’ dynamic better than Richard did.

“I know all that,” Richard said, thoroughly unimpressed. Geoff huffed a little and fiddled with the dials a little as the next song started up—“Love You To” (or “Granny Smith,” as he recalled it; Harrison never had a title ready when he started recording).

“What’d you ask for, then?”

“I dunno,” Richard said vaguely, as though he was trying to figure out what to say. Geoff huffed a little more, maybe because as Richard’s boss he was entitled to a bit of huffing, but mostly to get Richard to say whatever he was going to say. Richard looked over at him. “It’s just…don’t you think it’s—have you ever…?”

Geoff let out a vigorous huff, his loudest yet, and this time Richard really took notice.

“Don’t you think it’s a little _off_ , though? About how they’re always together and everything.”

“They’re in a band, like I said, Richard—” Geoff said, annoyed at his ambiguity and feeling uneasy with what he might be insinuating, but Richard cut him off impatiently.

“And I _know_ all that, like _I_ said! And I’m not talking about—I mean John and Paul, not the whole band.”

“John and Paul?” Geoff echoed, voice high with incredulity. Just what was Richard trying to say, exactly? As the question rose up in his thoughts, it occurred to him that it was just the thing he should be saying out loud—it had the perfect amount of skepticism and stern indignation…

“Just what are you trying to say exactly, Richard?”

Jolly good: that did the trick. Richard was looking flustered now—maybe he’d stop this nonsense and let Geoff smoke in peace.

“There’s something off about it, is all,” Richard muttered, and dug in a pocket for his own pack of cigarettes. “There’s something off when they spend more time with each other than they do with their birds.”

Geoff snorted and pointedly did not offer Richard a light as he took a long drag of his own ciggie, leaning back in his chair. “ _I_ spend more time with you than with birds, Richard, and I can assure you there is nothing in the least off about that,” he said at length, arching a brow at his young companion through the curls of grey smoke.

“You know what I mean,” Richard insisted, looking a little miffed and embarrassed, before putting his lips around the fag and offering a muttered “Gimme a light” through his clenched teeth; Geoff acquiesced reluctantly and then sat back again.

The trouble was, he did know what Richard meant. He’d worked with the Beatles on and off since 1963, when he’d sat in on their first recording session (in the position Richard was in currently), and now that he’d spent all this time with them as the engineer for Revolver—well, he liked to say he knew them pretty well. And he did. Which was why he knew Richard had a point, even if admitting it to himself bothered him, and the idea of admitting it to Richard was intolerable.

But still…

John and Paul were so…so…

Close. Yes, close was the word—not intimate, or any thing like that, that was too—

And that was when it really occurred to him. Geoff let his chair back down to the ground with a thud, barely aware that he had done so; he felt his head was spinning as the full extent of his own suspicions hit him baldly. He tried frantically to force it out of his head— _going to have time off—going to have time off—Richard’s a git—birds sleep Yorkshire pudding_ —but once it was in there, it wouldn’t quit. He suddenly found himself thumbing through his memories of the Beatles, of John and Paul—how they finished each other’s sentences and how it seemed like no one else was in the room when they were together, the way they’d shared the mike to record “If I Fell,” their voices weaving together so beautifully—

And more recent memories, too, all the recording sessions they’d done for the album. Christ…

Geoff forcibly steered his attention to the mixing, but he’d never been a huge fan of Indian music (or Harrison, come to that); it was hard to keep his mind on it—he knew he mustn’t think about what he was thinking about, that he should focus, concentrate—

He ran through the songs in his head in spite of himself. “Tomorrow Never Knows” was the first thing he had done with them after his promotion; he’d been so nervous he had at best a blurry recollection of the events that had unfolded then, but he was fairly sure there was nothing strange about their behavior that day. To be sure, John had accommodated all of Paul’s ideas and tape loops with a graciousness and eagerness that Geoff heartily wished he would apply to his dealings with the rest of them, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? A man could be obliging to his wife, but then a man could also be obliging to his friends and business partners.

Geoff breathed a sigh of relief as he absently twiddled with the levers—he’d talk himself out of this madness yet. What had been next? One of Paul’s undoubtedly—oh yes, “Got to Get You Into My Life.” Nothing odd about that memory, was there?

_Geoff was sitting in the control room with George Martin and John Lennon, watching as Paul tore through the vocal of “Got to Get You Into My Life.” Rather, he was recording the performance, and George and John were watching it._

_He was quite pleased with the song, and with the work he’d done on the brass part—he’d been nervous about breaking the rules at the time, but the results of sticking the mikes all but into the bells of the instruments had made for the perfect raucous sound. And with Paul’s vocals added—especially if he kept up singing with such gusto—it’d be even more perfect._

_“Dead ringer for Little Richard, he is,” Geoff declared to no one in particular. John glanced over at him from his seat near the stairwell, the smile on his face almost like that of a proud father, but it was a bit too much of a smirk for Geoff to think that was all there was to it._

_“He’s not doing it, now, though,” John said, half-rising out of his chair to peer through the window onto the studio. “You should hear him when he really gets into it.”_

_Geoff felt a little put-off by the comment—leave it to Lennon to contradict him. He strove to keep his voice pleasant as he replied, “I think he’s doing a bang-up job of it now.”_

_There was no doubt about it—the smile was a full-blown smirk now as John looked at him from over his shoulder. “He can do it better, son—quite the screamer, is Paul.”_

Geoff’s hand slipped on the lever and George Harrison’s voice came blaring out at full volume. Richard yelled at him in protest and mechanically he righted the controls; he heard his muttered, “Daft!” too when it quieted down, but it barely registered—

Oh, God. John hadn’t meant _that_ , had he? No, couldn’t have—he was just taking the piss—he was always saying ridiculous things just to get to him—and he’d charged down the stairs to yell encouragement to Paul just a while later, after all, so of course he was only referring to the song and the singing—

But then he remembered that smirk, and he knew it must be true. He felt his face flame at the idea—at thinking of such a thing—oh lord oh lord oh lord—

“Geoff, the bleeding song’s over,” Richard said, sounding exasperated, and when he turned to gaze at him he was looking perfectly casual, damn him. He had started this craziness, he had started Geoff in on it—it was insufferable that he wasn’t sharing the mental disturbance now—and how dare he get annoyed at the state he had put him in?

But that was the right attitude to have, wasn’t it? Just ignore the whole…thing…take it manfully, keep about his business and ignore it. _Ignore_ it. Right.

So he very generously disregarded Richard’s remarks (insubordination, really) and bracingly moved on to the next song. Which was…

“Doctor Robert,” Richard announced, stating the obvious as the song filled the empty control room.

Totally against his will, he strained to recall that session, but nothing came to him. Thank God—nothing must’ve gone on there, in that case, or at least nothing he would have to think about. Not that he would’ve, anyway—he was _ignoring it_ , after all.

“Weakest song on the album, that one,” Richard commented, taking a lazy puff of his cigarette. Geoff twisted around to look at him as he manned the levers.

“I think it’s a bloody marvel,” he said, although he was sure that his enormous relief rather colored his judgment.

“Well, of course it’s a marvel,” Richard retorted. “It’s the bloody Beatles, isn’t it? ’S not them at their best, that’s all I’m saying. Now, ‘Here, There, and Everywhere,’ that’s really something, you know?”

Was that the session where Paul had said something about how he was singing and John had said—?

God damn it, Richard.

_They were sitting in the control room at the end of an arduous session in the studio, listening to the final mix of “Here, There, and Everywhere.” Once again, George and Ringo had left, and George Martin had buggered off somewhere, so it was down to him and John and Paul. He liked to think that he and Paul were friends of sorts (they did get on pretty well), but nevertheless with the two of them there together, he might as well have been absent too; as it was, he felt as if he was intruding on them somehow. They were seated close together along the control table, in identical attitudes—legs stretched out lazily with feet resting on the table, relaxing after a long day. A languid, companionable silence enveloped them (Geoff had never known that not talking could be so intimate until he’d seen them at it)._

_After a while Paul started to hum along with his recorded voice, and then nudged John with the side of his foot. “You know, that’s my Marianne Faithfull impression,” he told him, his tone warm and sleepy in the way a child’s voice would be as they divulged secrets in the twilight between dreams and waking_ (or rather in the way a wife would mumble a last few words to her husband before drifting off) _. “My Marianne Faithfull voice.”_

_“You do a better job of it than she does,” John said, nudging back as a teasing grin curled up his mouth. “Come to that, you’d probably do a better job of being Marianne Faithfull than she does.”_

_“Very funny,” Paul said drolly, though he didn’t sound as though he particularly thought it was—Geoff himself didn’t quite get the joke, if it was one. “A right laugh, that.”_

_John did, though (it was his joke, after all), because he sniggered and poked Paul in the side._

_“Come now, Macca—imagine the possibilities! You’d have a single to start right off with, for one—‘As Queers Go By.'”_

_“John!” Paul groaned, laughing in spite of himself. John leaned forward now, letting his legs drop and watching Paul’s reaction with keen interest._

_“You wouldn’t have trouble looking the part, either,” he said lowly, and Geoff’s eyes popped._

_“You bloody wanker,” Paul said disgustedly, hitting him on the arm, a faint blush staining his cheekbones. Geoff felt a flash of indignation on his behalf—some friend Lennon was, comparing Paul to a bird. “You know I don’t like that.”_

_“Don’t like what?” John said, and there was something in his voice—something in the turn their conversation had taken, for God’s sake—that made Geoff feel hideously, awkwardly aware of his presence. He wished to Christ that he could get out, but he couldn’t very well leave when it was his job to stay._

_“You know what,” Paul muttered darkly, studiously avoiding John’s eyes as his blush deepened. “Calling me—_ pretty _—and such.”_

_He spat “pretty” out like it was a dirty word, and Geoff froze (he certainly had never thought about whether Paul was pretty until now), but John merely let out a crow of laughter. He looked like he was about to say more, but at that moment George Martin walked in, asking how everything was coming along—turned out he’d been in with Cilla Black briefly._

Then and now, Geoff had never been so relieved to see the man, because—

Because that clearly was not the sort of way one would associate with one’s mates—he couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever called a male friend of his—or a boy of any sort—pretty; it just wasn’t done. Boys weren’t pretty. Girls were pretty. And apparently Paul was pretty.

 _Was_ Paul pretty? Maybe that’s what was needed, some objective judgment. He struggled to recall the particulars of his face—black hair, sort of round cheeks—a baby face, as the press put it—naturally he had eyebrows and a mouth of some sort—and he had brown eyes, or were they some hazel thing…?

“What’re you pulling that face for?” Richard said, unexpectedly reminding him that he was supposed to be in the middle of a conversation with his assistant about serious musical topics, not contemplating whether Paul McCartney—whether a _bloke_ —qualified as pretty. “Oi!”

Geoff turned to stare at him dazedly. Was _Richard_ pretty?

Richard jabbed his cigarette at him and contorted his face grotesquely, apparently in mimicry of Geoff’s current expression.

No. No, he sure as hell wasn’t.

“I thought you loved that song!” Richard said, voice accusatory, for there was no more deadly a sign of hating it than insufficient exuberance when it was brought up.

Geoff _did_ love “Here, There, and Everywhere”—it was a special favorite of his, actually. He thought back to the soft refrain of Paul’s Marianne Faithfull voice—he’d heard it so many times he conjured the sound in his mind with ease. And it did rather sound like her—Paul definitely had a pretty _voice_ …

“Have you ever thought of a bloke as pretty?” Geoff asked Richard vaguely, and not until the words were out of his mouth did he realize just how peculiar such a question would sound.

To his credit, Richard didn’t shout or give him a disgusted look—he was merely surprised. Shocked. As he should be—as Geoff would have been, on any other day of his life.

“What in God’s name—?”

“Just answer me—have you ever thought of a bloke as pretty?”

“Bloody hell, no!” he cried uneasily, eyeing Geoff as if he was expecting to catch some sign that he was unwell. “Why—?”

“That’s what I thought,” Geoff muttered. He cleared his throat and made a valiant effort to keep from letting this incident get to him the way the last one had. So John had a strange sense of humor. So he had called Paul…pretty. So what? “Next song, I think—this one’s just about wrapped up.”

“All right,” Richard said, giving him one last, lingering look-over before he turned to consult the list of songs they had scheduled to mix. “The next one’s—let’s see—should be the last one, too—oh, we’ve still got to finish ‘I’m Only Sleeping’—That’s the one.”

Oh, God.

This time there was no stopping the memory that came flooding back to him.

_The session had begun with John spreading the gospel about playing tapes backwards (he didn’t explain how he’d come to discover the trick to the engineers, but Geoff could guess—stoned out of his head and accidentally, undoubtedly), and things were going smoothly for a time. But then John had gotten bored as they went through with the technicalities—it took ages for Harrison to get a proper solo down, not to mention the time spent mixing it in backwards—so John’s mind had wandered and naturally he’d brought Paul along with him. They had disappeared off to the toilets for an unaccountably long time, and when they came back there was a suspicious whiff of marijuana about them (A few days earlier a similar thing had happened with “And Your Bird Can Sing”—they’d nipped out for a joint and had come back to work through a few takes in absolute hysterics). Geoff had wrinkled his nose in distaste (it was dreadfully unprofessional), but he had gone about his work without comment. Now, though, it was getting out of hand._

_Paul normally was rather sober in the studio (both definitions of it, actually), as he took recording more seriously than the rest, and had a perfectionist bent that came from being the best musician in the group. This time, however, he must have had a hit too many, because he was absolutely silly—just giggling about everything. He had put on John’s glasses at some point_ (Which was rather flirty, wasn’t it? Geoff groaned at the realization; it was, after all, in a grammar school sort of way) _, distorting his own vision and leaving John half-blind, which meant that neither of them could see the lyric sheet in front of them. Paul more or less had the words memorized, and he had less to sing anyway—just the harmonies—but John was hopeless when it came to remembering lyrics. Geoff wasn’t sure that even mattered anyway, though, because sooner or later one or the other would inevitably break down into giggles and the whole run-through would be useless._

_He wasn’t the only one getting irritated at the whole thing, either; Harrison, already stewing from his repeated bungling of the solo, was glowering over at his band mates and had even let loose an angry, “For fuck’s sake!” after several good takes had been ruined, and George Martin of course was all stern disapproval. He couldn’t say anything for Ringo, who never seemed to speak in the studio as far as he could see, but he would’ve guessed that it was probably getting to him too. He wondered who would crack first._

_He shouldn’t have. It was George Harrison, of course._

_“Would you two fucking cut it out already!” he spat finally._

_They just laughed, and even Geoff could see the humor of it—Harrison was looking characteristically sour, hunched over his guitar sullenly and his grim eyebrows knitted together so fiercely it was hard to tell where one stopped and another began._

_“We’re not doing anything, George,” Paul said reasonably. “We’re just trying to record this song, man.”_

_He turned to John for confirmation (even though through those glasses he couldn’t possibly see him clearly), which he readily supplied. “That’s what we’re doing, yeah—what are you doing?”_

_The question made no sense to anyone but John and Paul, who sniggered at it like a couple of misbehaving schoolboys—it was pretty bloody obvious what George was doing. George, thankfully, didn’t dignify it with a response, contenting himself instead with muttering a sting of profanity in their general direction._

_George Martin apparently saw it as an opening, however, because he stepped smartly up: “He does have a point, boys.”_

_“Who does?” Paul asked, setting off another round of giggles between the two of them, but ignoring their little jokes now appeared to be the order of the day, because George continued as if he hadn’t heard them (although Geoff was sure he saw a muscle in his jaw twitch)._

_“You’ve got to pull yourselves together,” he said severely. “Or we’ll never finish this.”_

_“Did you hear that, eh?” John said to Paul, and then comically threw his arms around him, pulling him into a hug as Paul laughed and resisted halfheartedly. “Got to pull ourselves together.”_

_“Fuck off, John,” Paul said agreeably through his giggles, pushing him away. “We’ve got to finish this, like George said—both Georges said—the Georges said.”_

_“I can’t even remember what we’re doing anymore,” John said, still laughing, and then he grabbed at the bit of paper that had the lyrics on it with a flourish. “What song are we on?”_

_“I’m Sleeping, isn’t it?” Paul offered, leaning in to look at the sheet too, brow furrowing as he tried to read it, and then he chortled. “I can’t even make it out with these glasses on. How can you see wearing these things all the time, son?”_

_“How can you, without them?”_

_“Well, if you can’t even see,” George interrupted, seeming for all the world as though he was reasoning with a couple of churlish two-year-olds, “and you obviously don’t know the lyrics from memory, then you can’t be expected to sing them properly. So I think it’s time you give John back his glasses, Paul, don’t you?”_

_“You know what the real problem is, Macca?” John said conversationally, as if George hadn’t spoken—who knows, maybe he was so stoned he hadn’t realized he had; Geoff wasn’t quite sure how the drug worked, never having taken it himself. “I can’t read me own fucking handwriting.”_

_They both burst out laughing, and George sighed, his patience wearing thin._

_“Now, really—”_

_“Hang on, George, it’s okay—I’ve got a better idea,” Paul interjected brightly, heading him off; perhaps he believed in his pot haze that he was being helpful, or perhaps he was trying to save them all from a scolding. He got up from his stool clumsily, putting a hand on John’s shoulder to keep from stumbling, and went around behind him. “I can see just fine from back here—and I’ll hold the paper like this, so John can see too—”_

_He had one hand clamped on John’s shoulder, and extended the other one so that the grubby little page was held out in front of them, right in John’s face and a greater distance from himself._

_“How’s that?” he said, sounding inordinately pleased with himself. Both Georges sighed this time, but John’s reaction dwarfed their exasperation._

_“Okay, I’m good now!” he all but shouted, no doubt cranking up the volume for the entire room’s benefit, and naturally that set Paul off again. “’s fucking genius, luv—maybe I should just leave off with the bleeding glasses and go ’round like this instead.”_

_And apparently it was genius, because they went through several takes contentedly, fighting off their smiles and the occasional quaver in their voice from repressed laughter. Some time during the recording, Paul laid his chin on John’s shoulder so that they were cheek to cheek, and had slung his arm entirely around his shoulder, hand curling laxly against his shirt, so that he was all but draped over John, who made no complaint but seemed to be entering a strange mood. His cheeks were getting rather flushed and he was fidgeting, sitting rigidly in Paul’s embrace, and then his eyes took on a sleepy, heavy lidded quality. Geoff was getting slightly alarmed by his attitude and wondered if anyone else noticed something was off about him, but figured it must be another effect of the marijuana._

_Then John decided that he (or rather, he and Paul) had to go to the bathroom midway through a take._

_“We’ve got to take a piss,” he had announced rather abruptly, sending one George into another swearing fit and adding another grey hair to the other’s head, and inexplicably, determinedly, had dragged Paul off with him as the band clattered to a halt around them._

_“What the_ fuck _?”_

 __That _was Ringo._

Geoff blanched at the memory of John’s facial expression. At the time he’d thought he was just getting sick from the reefer he’d snuck, but now that he thought about it…

The heavy lids, the flush, how tense he was getting when Paul all but cuddled with him—

Could he…?

No.

But couldn’t he have been—?

No!

He had been—he had been…

He had been aroused. Geoff felt horrified at the thought but couldn’t keep it from crossing his mind and sucking the oxygen out of anything else that might’ve been there. And then his horror increased tenfold as he realized the implication of their next move—they had gone to the lavatory together.

And that meant—in vain he tried to remember how they had looked coming out—he couldn’t remember, maybe they’d been a little disheveled—

The idea of it streaked scarlet across his mind—

“Geoff…”

Oh, fuck, how could he look at them the same way now? How could he face them, when he suspected—knew—suspected, damn it—?

“Geoff.”

Thank God he’d get some time off now—he’d just forget all about this crazy flight of fancy, and when he came back he’d be ready to work with them again—

That was right. He was getting time off. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, forcefully reminding himself:

He could maybe get a love life now (hell, it’d be nice to just have a life), go out with his friends, do all the things a man his age should be doing…and for now he could keep his feet propped up and his tie loosened, and he could finish his cigarette—

And of course, that was when Richard had to bring it up.

“Geoff!”

Bemusedly he swung his head around to look at Richard, who inexplicably looked the same as ever in this new upside down world he had come to inhabit. “What?” His voice seemed disconnected from him, vague and automatic.

“I’ve just realized, we’re missing one.”

“Missing one what?” he pressed distractedly.

“A song,” Richard said.

“A song,” Geoff repeated slowly. Then what Richard was saying came into sharper, cataclysmic focus. “Do you mean—?”

“That we’re one short for the album, yes,” Richard affirmed, and Geoff felt a horrible sinking feeling in his gut. “I guess it’s time to call the band back in.”

Oh dear God.


End file.
